Chapter 16

So father he may glower and frown, And mother scold about it; The shepherd has my heart to keep, And can I live without it? I'm sure he will not part with it, In spite of what they say, And if he would as sure I am It would not come away.

So friends may frown, while I can smile To know I'm loved by one Who has my heart, and him to seek What better can be done? And be it Spring or Summer both, Or be it Winter cold, If pots should freeze upon the fire I'd meet him at the fold.

I'm fain to make my wedding gown, Which he has bought for me, But it will wake my mother's thoughts, And evil they will be, Although he has but stole my heart, Which gives me nought of pain, For bye and bye he'll buy the ring, And bring my heart again.

THE FALSE KNIGHT'S TRAGEDY

[Students of ballad literature will be reminded by the following poem of the "May Colleen" and "The Outlandish Knight" of other collections. The resemblance between the three ballads is general up to a certain point, but a striking contrast occurs in the denouement, for whereas in other versions the maiden contrives by a simple stratagem to fling her false lover into the sea, where she leaves him to his fate, in the following she falls a victim to his treachery. His fitting end is, however, indicated in the remarkable stanza with which the ballad closes.]

A false knight wooed a maiden poor, And his high halls left he To stoop in at her cottage door, When night left none to see.

And, well-a-day, it is a tale For pity too severe-- A tale would melt the sternest eye, And wake the deafest ear.

He stole her heart, he stole her love, 'T was all the wealth she had; Her truth and fame likewise stole he,

* * * *

And they rode on, and they rode on; Far on this pair did ride, Till the maiden's heart with fear and love Beat quick against her side.

And on they rode till rocks grew high. "Sir Knight, what have we here?" "Unsaddle, maid, for here we stop:" And death's tongue smote her ear.

Some ruffian rude she took him now, And wished she'd barred the door, Nor was it one that she could read Of having heard before.

"Thou art not my true love," she said, "But some rude robber loon; He'd take me from the saddle bow, Nor leave me to get down."

"I ne'er was your true love," said he, "For I'm more bold than true; Though I'm the knight that came at dark To kiss and toy with you."

"I know you're not my love," said she, "That came at night and wooed; Although ye try and mock his speech His way was ne'er so rude.

He ne'er said word but called me dear, And dear he is to me: Ye spake as ye ne'er knew the word, Rude ruffian as ye be.

Ye never was my knight, I trow, Ye pay me no regard, But he would take my arm in his If we but went a yard."

"No matter whose true love I am; I'm more than true to you, For I'll ne'er wed a shepherd wench,-- Although I came to woo."

And on to the rock's top they walked, Till they stood o'er the salt sea's brim. "And there," said he, "'s your bridal bed, Where you may sink or swim."

A moonbeam shone upon his face, The maid sunk at his feet, For 't was her own false love she saw, That once so fond did greet.

"And did ye promise love for this? Is the grave my priest to be? And did ye bring this silken dress To wed me with the sea?"

"O never mind your dress," quoth he, 'T is well to dress for sea: Mermaids will love to see you fine; Your bridesmaids they will be."

"O let me cast this gown away, It's brought no good to me, And if my mother greets my clay Too wretched will she be.

For she, for my sad sake, would keep This guilty bridal dress, To break and tell her bursting heart She had a daughter less."

So off she threw her bridal gown, Likewise her gold clasped shoon: His looks frowned hard as any stone, Hers pale turned as the moon.

"O false, false knight you've wrapped me warm Ere I was cold before, And now you strip me unto death, Although I'm out of door.

O dash away those thistles rude, That crowd about the shore; They'll wound my tender feet, that ne'er Went barefoot thus before.

O dash those stinging nettles down, And cut away the brier, For deep they wound those lily arms Which you did once admire."

And he nor briers nor thistles cut, Although she grieved full sore, And he nor shed one single tear, Nor kiss took evermore.

She shrieked--and sank, and is at rest, All in the deep, deep sea; And home in base and scornful pride, With haunted heart, rode he.

Now o'er that rock there hangs a tree, And chains do creak thereon; And in those chains his memory hangs, Though all beside is gone.

LOVE'S RIDDLE

"Unriddle this riddle, my own Jenny love, Unriddle this riddle for me, And if ye unriddle the riddle aright, A kiss your prize shall be, And if ye riddle the riddle all wrong, Ye're treble the debt to me:

I'll give thee an apple without any core; I'll give thee a cherry where stones never be; I'll give thee a palace, without any door, And thou shalt unlock it without any key; I'll give thee a fortune that kings cannot give, Nor any one take from thee."

"How can there be apples without any core? How can there be cherries where stones never be? How can there be houses without any door? Or doors I may open without any key? How can'st thou give fortunes that kings cannot give, When thou art no richer than me?"

"My head is the apple without any core; In cherries in blossom no stones ever be; My mind is love's palace without any door, Which thou can'st unlock, love, without any key. My heart is the wealth, love, that kings cannot give, Nor any one take it from thee.

So there are love's riddles, my own Jenny love, Ye cannot unriddle to me, And for the one kiss you've so easily lost I'll make ye give seven to me. To kiss thee is sweet, but 't is sweeter by far To be kissed, my dear Jenny, by thee.

Come pay me the forfeit, my own Jenny love; Thy kisses and cheeks are akin, And for thy three sweet ones I'll give thee a score On thy cheeks, and thy lips, and thy chin." She laughed while he gave her, as much as to say, "'T were better to lose than to win."

THE BANKS OF IVORY

'T was on the banks of Ivory, 'neath the hawthorn-scented shade, Early one summer's morning, I met a lovely maid; Her hair hung o'er her shoulders broad, her eyes like suns did shine, And on the banks of Ivory, O I wished the maid was mine.

Her face it wore the beauty of heaven's own broken mould; The world's first charm seemed living still; her curls like hanks of gold Hung waving, and her eyes glittered timid as the dew, When by the banks of Ivory I swore I loved her true.

"Kind sir," she said, "forsake me, while it is no pain to go, For often after kissing and such wooing there comes woe; And woman's heart is feeble; O I wish it were a stone; So by the banks of Ivory I'd rather walk alone.

For learned seems your gallant speech, and noble is your trim, And thus to court an humble maid is just to please your whim; So go and seek some lady fair, as high in pedigree, Nor stoop so low by Ivory to flatter one like me."

"In sooth, fair maid, you mock at me, for truth ne'er harboured ill; I will not wrong your purity; to love is all my will: My hall looks over yonder groves; its lady you shall be, For on the banks of Ivory I'm glad I met with thee."

He put his hands unto his lips, and whistled loud and shrill, And thirty six well-armed men came at their master's will, Said he "I've flattered maids full long, but now the time is past, And the bonny hills of Ivory a lady own at last.

My steed's back ne'er was graced for a lady's seat before; Fear not his speed; I'll guard thee, love, till we ride o'er the moor, To seek the priest, and wed, and love until the day we die." So she that was but poor before is Lady Ivory.

ENDNOTES

[1] The Editor has pleasure in acknowledging the kindness of Miss James of Theddingworth, and Miss Powell, of Thame. The former lady obligingly sent him the manuscript of a lecture on "Dryden and Clare" by her brother, the late Rev. T. James, of Theddingworth, and the latter several letters written by Clare to Mr. Octavius Gilchrist.

[2] Among those who at this time or subsequently made Clare presents of books were Lord Radstock, Bishop Marsh, Mrs. Emmerson, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Bloomfield, Mr. Gilchrist, Lord Milton, Messrs. Taylor & Ilessey, Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co, Charles Lamb, Henry Eehnes, Lady Sophia Pierrepoint, the Rev. H. P. Cary, E. V. Rippingille, Allan Cunningham, Geo. Barley, Sir Charles A. Elton, William Gifford, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, James Montgomery, E. Drury, Alaric A. Watts, William Hone &c.

Clare's little library, consisting of 500 volumes, was purchased from his widow after his death, and placed in the Northampton Museum.

[3] Mr. S. C. Hall kindly informs me that Mrs. Emmerson "was a handsome, graceful, and accomplished lady." Her letters show that she was Clare's senior by eleven or twelve years.--ED.

[4] Coleridge's definition of watchmen.

[5] Mr. How's connection with the firm of Whittaker & Co. terminated before the appearance of the "Rural Muse," but he brought out the volume, through them, on his own account, and twenty years afterwards transferred the copyright to Mr. Taylor, who, in 1854, contemplated the re-issue of Clare's poems.

[6] The oft-repeated statements are incorrect, that the Northampton County Lunatic Asylum is a "pauper asylum," that Clare was "a pauper lunatic," and that Earl Fitzwilliam expressed the wish that he should have "a pauper funeral." The Fitzwilliams have been kind and generous friends of Clare and his family for nearly fifty years, and it is not to be credited that any member of that house ever said anything of the kind. It may be added that Earl Spencer continued his annuity of L10 to Mrs. Clare until her death on Feb. 5th, 1871. In this connection it should also be noted that the Rev. Charles Mossop, of Etton, and Mr. and Mrs. Bellars, of Helpstone, took a lively interest in the welfare of Mrs. Clare and her family, and in May, 1864, Mr. Bellars purchased the poet's cottage at Helpstone and has set it apart for charitable uses. Lastly, Mr. Joseph Whitaker, of London, in whom is vested the copyright in Clare's poems, paid Mrs. Clare a handsome annuity for the last six or seven years of her life.

End of Project Gutenberg's Life and Remains of John Clare, by J. L. Cherry